Paul was well on his way to being drunk by the time someone knocked on the door again. Dave, who could no longer move thanks to the potency of his latest purchase, simply pointed in the vague direction of the noise and said, “Door”.

Paul struggled up from the sofa, knocking over a few empty bottles; he opened the front door, forgetting the possible zombie inundation this might create.

Martin stood on the doorstep, covered in blood and carrying a six-pack of beer.

Paul looked drunkenly confused for a moment, the sight of Martin covered in enough blood for a transfusion battled against the sight of newly arrived beer. The beer won and he threw his hands in the air and shouted, “Hurray!”

He dragged Martin in and presented him to Dave, slurring, “Look its Martin!”

Martin grabbed a cold beer from the fridge in the kitchen, swapping it for his own contribution and then came back to sit in the armchair, ignoring the weed for the moment.

Apparently he had driven here in his brothers brand new 4×4, right after he had decapitated him with a carving knife. He and his brother, Pete, had been holed up in Martins tiny terraced house in Quarmby. They had been in the middle of a Battlestar Galactica marathon, when Martins neighbours had popped round for a bite to eat, via the living room window. Martin’s brother had been bitten as they barricaded themselves upstairs, using Martins memory foam mattress and large pornography collection. They had held out for a couple of days, whilst the Zombies put face prints in the mattress, but eventually Pete had turned.

Dave, who was starting to come round again after bursting into fits of laughter when Martin told the part about cutting off his own brother head, said sagely, “That’s messed up,” and started making another joint.

Martin looked around the room for a while, and then in a businesslike voice asked “So what’s the plan?”

Paul and Dave stared at each other for a moment.

“Well, Dave’s plan is to get caned and play battlefield” Paul replied.

“It’s a good plan, but two bags wont last us long” said Martin speaking in an authoritative voice, having spent many years sharing bags of weed with Dave. “Has anyone heard from Jason?”

Paul and Dave exchanged glances again.

“Not as such no,” Paul said tentatively.

“You haven’t rung him have you?” Martin said, a wry smile coming to his face.

“Well my phone doesn’t work, and well, we haven’t had” Paul looked at the bottles and the darkening sky outside, “haven’t had the time…”

“We should go shopping; you know, get to the supermarket and load up. Only without the paying bit obviously. We can pick up Jason on the way.”

“Yeah, well the git will want a lift wont he. He wouldn’t drive.” Paul replied sarcastically. He then suddenly slapped his forehead hard. “Shit!”

“What?” Martin asked.

“Of course” Paul explained, “We already know what we are going to do.”

“We do?” said Dave incredulously.

“We have had this conversation a million times before, every time we watch a zombie film.” He looked at their blank faces and continued. “Well? Where is the place we said we would head straight for, in any end of the world situation?”

Due to the overtly sexual nature of these adverts Cadburys Caramel was banned in over 37 countries, as it was believed the gooey caramel centre contained crystal meth. Once ingested the devious chocolate would induce feelings of euphoria, heightened sexuality and the need to listen to Barry White records (also banned). Mr Beaver is obviously a reference to female feet and Rabbit is the crack dealer, the tree however is innocent, although this did not stop a rash of tree killings in the Middle East.

Hofmeister

George the alcoholic bear starred in nearly all the Hofmeister adverts in the 1980’s until his death from cirrhosis of the liver in 91. He was replaced, but the magic was not the same, as the company chose to use a tea total panda simply dressed in a brown bear costume. The Brand finally died in 2003. This particular advert is in reference to the rampant alcoholism inherent amongst astronomers at the time. Patrick Moore in late 87 was reported as saying “I can’t see Uranus until I’ve had at least twelve cans of Hofmeister”.

KFC

During the 1980’s undercover agents of the KFC bought cloud seeding technology from the KGB in exchange for the Colonels secret recipe. They then used this to ruin every bank holiday, forcing thousands of British children to be taken to their restaurant chains instead of the recently opened AltonTowers.

Look-In Magazine

Look-In enabled thousands of children who were not posh enough to watch the BBC to still enjoy ITV programming when it was only showing Tales of the Unexpected or Crossroads. It ran until 1994 when ITV became shit. Fraggle Rock although filmed by Jim Henson was in fact a documentary about a race of bastards who ate what the ingenious and yet sadly oppressed Doozers built. Filming stopped abruptly when the Doozers finally shook of the manacles of oppression and destroyed the Fraggle Race.

Now 2!

As if Now! Wasn’t enough for you, you financially free 80’s child you. Sales of Now 2 enabled PolyGram records to buy the Isle of Skye and create the worlds first music artist labour camp. Its early inmates seeding the way for soap star singers and boy bands.

It is a little known fact, but if you play Culture Club records backwards the secret messages can turn you un-gay.

Milk Tray Man

The milk tray man has remained at the top of the Weight Watchers Most Wanted List for over thirty years. During the 80’s he systematically target young and beautiful women, bringing them box after sickening box of chocolates in an effort to make them fat. It is thought he was once spurned by a supermodel and turned onto a devious scheme of revenge. His whereabouts remain unknown.

Weety Snax

Banned in 1987 for containing imagination these “snax” gave children creative ideas and other such dangerous feelings. Due to a copyright infringement it is not actually Superman in the adverts but Andy Crane of “The Broom Cupboard” fame. Spiderman is Spiderman.

Holidays

Holidays were a new invention of Sir Clive Sinclair and released for general use in 1982 on an unsuspecting British Public. Early Holidays were barbaric, with many confused holidaymakers simply staying in an airport for two weeks – hence the title “WhyBristolAirport”.

Computer Games

Computer games had been around since 1882 when “Pong” was invented by Charles Babbage. As we can see they certainly had come a long way since then. Fortunately a secret political agreement put a freeze on the amount of progress computer games can make, which is why chucky egg was so crap. Tom Baker was so skint in the 1980’s he would have come round and cut your lawn for a couple of quid, such was his addiction to scarves at the time. He is reported to have once worn thirteen scarves to the opening of a comic book shop in Burry StEdmonds.

Paul drove slowly down Penistone Road out of FenayBridge and into Waterloo. He had already smashed the front of the new reg BMW, trying to drive through the barrier out of his flats car park. It had taken three goes to actually break through, unlike the envisioned tyre screaming escape smashing through balsa wood barrier movies had taught him it should be like. Not that it mattered as its owner was currently trying to eat his neighbours.

Waterloo was silent save for a few Zombies shambling about; he gave them a wide berth. The road was littered with cars, some of which he was forced to nudge out of the way to get passed. So far the zombies, when they were close enough, had simply pawed at the glass unable and unintelligent enough not to smash it. He thought he saw a few live people at one point but they were running down a side street and soon disappeared out of view. Passing Dalton Green lane he noticed it had been barricaded off with some parked cars. Several bodies lay on this side, probably zombies that had tried to get through, it seemed quiet now however. Paul was about to get out when he saw through a gap in the make shift fortification a zombie eating an arm on the other side. Obviously the barricade had not held, or else the dead had found a way round. He drove on slowly, looking into the houses for signs of life.

The Tolson museum was on fire to his left, the blaze burning unchecked as a few mesmerised zombies stood watching the inferno. Paul chastised himself for never going in before; it was always somewhere you forget to visit, even though it was on his doorstep.

The zombies became more numerous the closer he got to town as did the crashed and abandoned cars, more fires burned in the background. Ignoring traffic conventions he drove across the lanes and up a one way street into Moldgreen. Outside the day and night mini market a group of hooded zombies mulled about around the corpse of a shop assistant. The door to the store stood wide open, this was probably the only situation in which the youths would not have been stuffing as much white lightning cider and Lambert and Butlers into their coats as possible.

Paul turned the corner on to Dave’s street; it looked strange, there were places to park.

He turned the engine off and looked up at the dilapidated terrace, its blinds were closed and it looked like no one was home. This was a good sign as Dave rarely left the house, a committed agoraphobic and hater of sunshine.

Grabbing the crowbar Paul cautiously got out of the car onto the quiet street. With a brief glance around he struggled through the overgrown hedgerow and up the broken stone steps. He knocked twice.

Nothing.

Well it had been a long shot anyway; who in there right minds would have stopped in a town overrun with zombies. He tried the handle, it was fast, locked.

Chastising himself for being so stupid as to risk driving over here he booted the door in frustration. There was a noise from inside then a growling voice shouted out. “Alright! Fer fucks sake.”

Keys jangled on the other side and the door opened to reveal Dave in a grubby dressing gown that could possibly have been blue in its former life.

“WHAT!…Oh alright Paul, thought you were those bloody kids mucking about again.”

He padded back through the piled up mail refuse behind the door into the gloom of his living room. Paul quickly locked the front door and joined him.

Dave slumped into a settee that looked like it had been in a fight with a truck, a game controller appearing in his hands.

“You err, not been outside then?” Paul asked amazed at Dave’s obliviousness to the danger.

“Mmph?” Dave replied his eyes starring fixedly at the screen. “MOTHERFUCKER!” he screamed so loudly that Paul jumped off the arm of the settee his crowbar held high ready to strike.

“Son of a bitch has been camping by that spawn point all morning. Soon as you spawn, BAM!”

“Dave have you been in here all week playing battlefield?” enquired Paul angrily.

Dave gave him a look that confirmed he though Paul was insane. “Of course. I’m on holiday aren’t I, what else am I going to do?”

“And no one mentioned what has happened online?” said Paul incredulously

“I turned off the voice bit; they’re all whiney yank kids, bitching like babies when they get shot. Who wants to listen to that? You got to remember the demographic that is playing during office hour’s mate. People on a different time zone, kids skiving school and the unemployed. It’s like watching jobfinder or hanging around the park, you only do it when you have to”

“Plus you hate everyone anyway.”

“Well there is that, I’ll grant you. Why are you not at work anyway?”

After several refusals, two cups of tea and a pizza sandwich Paul took Dave outside. Within ten meters they came across a few bodies that were serving as lunch to a zombie with no legs wearing a T-shirt that said “Do you think I’m sexy on it?”

For possibly only the second time in his life Dave ran back home, locking Paul out in the process. When he finally did let Paul back in he was using his mobile phone.

“How have you got a signal mines dead?” asked Paul

Dave ignored him, putting his finger to his lips. “Yo Flynn, I don’t suppose you can sort me out can you? Yeah two bags please. Ok, about half an hour, great.”

Paul eyed him suspiciously, “What are you up to, do you have a way out for us?” he asked hopefully.

Dave jumped back onto the settee picking up the controller again. “Eh? Oh no that was Flynn, he’s bringing us some weed round. I can’t face all that,” he pointed to the window, “without some green gold.”

“So your big plan for the apocalypse is to get caned and play Battlefield?”

“Yep, already got beer in the fridge. Besides someone will be sorting it out wont they”

“I don’t believe this! Its zombie town out there anyway, you’ll never see this Flynn….top left on the balcony, good shot. There’s no way you’ll get your weed.” Said Paul slumping off the arm into the settee.

They played battlefield for a while, three lives each before a pass. Paul drank a beer and wondered about just heading out by himself.

Someone thumped on the door and Paul sprang to his feet again, grabbing the crowbar off the debris strewn coffee table.

After resting from the mornings exertions and partaking of a particularly average microwave curry, Paul considered his options. The power was still on, that was undoubtedly a good sign. Somewhere people were doing normal things like making electricity, so men like Paul could eat badly made curries.

On the other hand Craig, Paul’s neighbour was now a slavering zombie with the consumption of large quantities of flesh his number one priority. Craig was outside the door now, fumbling at the handle and moaning morosely.

In every life or death situation, in every carefully planned scenario, thought up by people who spend every waking moment thinking about strange scenarios, the advice is always the same. Stay where you are and wait for rescue.

Unfortunately Paul had never attended a Zombie regulations meeting, and quite frankly would probably still have fallen asleep, just like he did in the fire regulations meetings at work. What Paul had seen, was every action and horror film available from the Waterloo Blockbuster, and in every single one of those films the people that got the hell out of whatever place they were in, lived. Sure for a while the people who staid put were ok, but slowly the monsters work out the weaknesses. There was no way Paul would end up the guy that stayed put in the film.

So he decided to leave.

First things first, protection.

Paul ransacked his wardrobes looking for his sturdiest clothes, luckily he had gone through a hiking faze about six months ago so had some pretty heavy stuff. Dressed in hiking boots, two pairs of jeans covered in waterproof trousers, thick coat with magazines pushed down the arms and a pink cycling helmet that belonged to his ex, he felt reasonably bite proof. Just to be extra cautious he put on a dust mask and some leather gloves that were too big for him and had subsequently never been worn. Now he turned his attentions to his next need, weapons.

Paul looked at the mega cock on the table. Zombie holocaust or not, there was no way he would be seen fighting for freedom waving a massive dildo in his hands. He didn’t have a cricket bat or any golf clubs, he just wasn’t that sporty. There were a few knives in a block by the oven but he didn’t really fancy getting in close to use them. He cast his eyes about the room. All this crap he had collected and now he couldn’t even defend himself unless it was with a stolen sex toy.

He was about to start taking furniture apart, when he remembered something under the sink. When he first got the flat, the carpet fitters had left behind a crow bar, he had meant to drop it off for them for months now. Scattering Mr Sheen and Absinthe, Paul located the hefty bar at the back of the cupboard. Standing he gave it an experimental swing, nice.

Stuffing some breakfast bars and chocolate into his pocket Paul worked out his route. He would get downstairs to the car, with all the security doors in the building it shouldn’t be too bad. Next he would drive over to Dave’s in Moldgreen as that was closest, see if he was still alive and knew anything. After that, well after that he would have another think.

Paul moved the furniture away from his front door, unhooked the security chain, unlocked the door and stood back, crow bar raised.

The Zombie Craig hearing the noise made renewed moaning cries and buffeted the door from the other side.

Retard can’t even open a door!

Paul opened the door wide in a swinging ark to reveal Craig with an expression of wonder on his face that the door had just opened.

“Sorry Craig!” said Paul meaning it and brought the crow bar down on Craig’s head. The already cracked skull sank and then split as the steel demolished its contents. Craig dropped instantly to the floor, dead for good.

Paul stepped over his former neighbour’s corpse and looked down the corridor. It seemed Craig’s fat girlfriend was as lazy dead as she was alive.

Paul decided against the lift, he had seen Dawn of the Dead not too long ago and got claustrophobic anyway. The stairs although knackering proved risk free, with just one moment when he saw a grey faced Zombie peering at him through a glass fire door. Luckily the stairs went all the way down to the underground car park, all he had to do was punch in the code to open the door. Paul peered through the glass, darkness beyond, no movement. Quickly he opened the door and ran to the far side of the car park where his battered Mondeo was parked.

Two figures detached themselves from the shadows and began to walk towards him as he checked his pockets for his keys, his keys!

“Oh you twat Paul!” he yelled berating himself.

The two figures shuffled nearer, one was a woman Paul didn’t recognise, and the other was Patrick the security guard. Both began to moan loudly and raised their arms as they drew closer to Paul’s car. This was not the movies, he was not a Customer Service Clerk who just happened to have been a Navy Seal, he could not hot-wire cars.

The security guard Patrick lunged forward forcing Paul to swipe him away with the crow bar; he landed in a heap but continued to move. The woman made a noise somewhere between a scream and a moan, grabbing on to Paul’s arm and trying to bite through the material of his coat. He pulled his arm free causing a flicker of disappointment to cross the Zombie woman’s features. She hadn’t been able to get a good hold as in her other arm she clutched a handbag that had obviously been important in her previous life. Paul hit her full in the face with the trusty crow bar flicking her head back with a crack. As she fell he yanked the bag from her hand. Inside was the usual debris of lipstick, mirror, nail varnish and … car keys.

“Jackpot!” cried Paul kicking off Patrick’s attempt to crawl over and eat his foot. He pressed the lock open symbol on the keys and some lights flashed two cars down the row of vehicles. A brand new BMW.

Paul stretched out his arm to silence an alarm clock that wasn’t there, and knocked over a glass of water. It was caught neatly by a bucket of sick by Paul’s bed, the culmination of three days of suffering from Norovirus. The gastroenteritis had hit him very hard, leaving him off work and not even able to drink lager.

Opening crusty eyes he groaned at the bright light streaming through the curtains, needling his brain like a monkey knife fight. He felt much better than he had, still tired, but he didn’t feel the need to instantly vomit up his pancreas like yesterday. Still, they could bollocks if they thought he would be going into work today.

After a quick shower in the ludicrously small bathroom of his one bedroom flat, he padded into its equally tiny lounge.It had cost one hundred and forty thousand ponds, but at least he was on the property ladder he told himself, albeit the bottom rung that happened to be on the top floor. Picking up a piece of three day old pizza he flicked on the TV, no pictures just a piercing white noise. He tried a few channels but nothing presented itself.

Swearing he dressed quickly in a pair of old jeans and T shirt, he would knock on Craig’s door across the hall, his only neighbour. The man was an insufferable bore who collected football programmes but didn’t actually like football; he always knew what was going on with the building.

Out in the hall Paul knocked twice on the heavy fireproof door of 60b, there was no answer. Maybe he was out scouring the second hand stalls for programmes down at the Tuesday market. Either that or doing the hideously fat thing that past for his girlfriend, Gloria. Paul shuddered; just the sight of her blubbery form gave him more nausea than Norovirus ever could, poor Craig.

He knocked again and the door nudged open, not quite held on the cheap Yale lock. Bloody builders though Paul, everything was cheap in the building. He had pulled a tap off his sink the day after he had moved in, the construction company had said it was natural wear and tear. He walked into the musty paper Aladdin’s cave that was Craig’s living room.

“Craig? You in?” he called nearly tripping over a pile of HTFC programmes from the 1970’s. “Is your TV alright, cos mines got no picture.”

There was a low moan from the bedroom.

“You alright mate, you haven’t got that Norovirus as well have you? It’s a right bugger, three days I’ve been in bed.”

He opened the door on Craig’s small bedroom; there were more programmes on the floor in here, though they seemed to have been kicked over. A large sleigh style bed dominated the room, its sheets and duvet had been pulled over the far side.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if the damn aerial hasn’t fallen off the roof, probably only stuck on with Pritt Stick.” Carried on Paul, noting the messiness of the room and feeling better about his own scruffy apartment. Another moan came from the other side of the bed, it sounded wet, like someone talking through a flannel. Paul moved round to the other side “Oof you do sound in a bad way, I ….”

He stopped dead at the sight of Craig, quite literally eating out his girlfriend. Craig’s arms were in up to the elbows of her open stomach. The floor was covered in flesh and huge lumps of bloody fat; the bottom of the curtains by the bed had turned scarlet as though dipped in dye. Craig seemed oblivious to his visitor burying his face into the gelatinous depths of his large girlfriend, occasionally making the low moan.

Ice formed around Paul’s stomach leeching into his bones as the fear took hold. Yet for all his fear all he could think was, so that’s why he wanted a fat bird, to eat her!

He began to back away slowly, his foot brushed against something cold and wet and he had to force himself not to look at it, lest he make a noise.

As he reached the end of the bed something hard caught under his foot and he stumbled with a thud, this time he did look down. It was the biggest bright orange dildo he had ever seen in his life, including the internet. Without realising it he said aloud “Ewwwwww!”

Gloria’s eyes flicked open and she let out a rattling wail, her bingo winged arms rising to point at Paul. Craig’s head suddenly snapped round, further than should have been possible, revealing a face stripped of flesh. Letting out an inhuman snarl from his lipless mouth he began to raise himself from his feast.

Paul grabbed the only available weapon, the monster orange cock.

As Craig began to rise Paul brought the ginormous phallus down on his skull, there was a sickening crack as the bone broke, but Craig continued to rise. Gloria was now moving too, trying to sit up despite the fact her stomach muscles had been devoured.

Paul ran from the room in full panic barely remembering to close the doors he passed through, hoping to buy time.

Slamming his own front door he quickly locked it, then grabbed his heavy arm chair and put is against the door. He stood looking at the barricade for a moment, and then reaching over the chair put the security chain on.

Putting the jumbo sex aid on his coffee he started to move away then stopped. He picked up the dildo again and slid a coaster underneath it.

With heart beating in his chest he made his way to the curtains, he had watched enough crap horror films to know what he was likely to see. However nothing can really prepare you for the sight of a group of Zombie Cub Scouts walking down your road. He silently hoped it was not Bob-a-Job week.

Tom Jones the mightiest man dragon ever produced by the nation of Cymru, strode away from the alter of Latoya Jackson. In a side room he found the sacred records of the Isle of Wight Festival as well as the curious Tina Turner single “Nut Bush City Limits”. Looking about the room for a carrier bag to put the records in, he opened a battered looking locker. It was stuffed full of Iceland bags but before he took one Wee Jimmy cried out, “wait Dr Jones. In the bottom lookie”.

There at the base was a rather worn MkVII British Gas Mask Bag, obviously a relic of the castles war days. Jones sighed, if he had been seen carrying an Iceland supermarket bag he would have never lived it down, forced to do hideous commercials in an effort to sell frozen death to mothers.

He quickly threw the bag over his muscular shoulder and deposited the precious vinyl inside.

Travelling down a roughly hewn stone corridor they nearly stumbled into the dastardly Mr Alan Titchmarsh. He was too busy whipping a poor hippie into unconsciousness to notice when Jones plucked the long leather whip from his upraised hand.

“Now then Boyo, I think your bulbs need planting” said Jones smiling as Mr Alan Titchmarsh turned to face the welsh legend with a quizzical look on his face. Tom swiftly kicked the green fingered sadist square in the testicles. Titchmarsh’s eyes crossed and he let out a low keening noise, before Tom could pretend to stop him the Hippie was on the gardener like a flash of fury.

“Looks like a private fight to me, lets move on Jimmy,” Tom eyed the whip in his large hands. “Think I’ll keep hold of this though”.

As they moved further into the depths of the castle the smell of wizard’s pipeweed grew stronger, its pungent odour indicating they would soon reach the underground plantation.

A voice could be heard up ahead, it seemed to be someone practising a meeting….”Hello…..Hel-lo” theygave a phlegmy cough “Hello, I’m Allan”

Peering round an opening in the side of the tunnel, the duo looked into what must be private quarters. A man stood in front of a full length mirror, holding out his hand as if offering it to his reflection to shake. He wore a dark suit and his face was obscured by a brown fedora hat. Slowly the figure raised its chin revealing a smooth face; the top lip sported a crudely drawn biro moustache. A malevolent eye shot into a corner as it saw the figures observing from the doorway. The suited figure spun with fists raised to reveal Ellen MacArthur beneath the fedora, her cheeks burning red. “I’ll kill you before you are able to speak of this Jones!” Screamed the sea faring man-she.

The circumnavigating female came at them like a tsunami, arms flailing and foaming at the mouth.

Jones raised an eyebrow, “Normally I would never hit a woman, however I don’t think you count…Allen”. With that the Welsh legend let fly a devastating haymaker punch instantly knocking Ellen MacArthur unconscious. Jones rubbed his knuckles, and noticed the hat at his feet. Placing the dog eared fedora on his head he glanced back at MacArthurs crumpled form. “Thanks for the hat sailor”.

It took twenty minutes to reach the ganja cavern were the hippies were still hard at work under the malevolent gaze of their task master, Mark King of Level 42.

One gentle flower power child had fallen behind in harvesting the green gold. King pounced on the man, savagely beating him with the neck of a bass guitar.

Mark King glanced up from his re-educating of the bearded weirdy, into the smoky light of the tunnel to see the illuminated form of Jones in his fedora hat, whip at hand.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

“I’m Tom Jones, and I’m going to teach you some lessons in Love,” with that Jones flicked his whip knocking the guitar from Kings hand, “Someone should have done that a long time ago” roared Jones moving in for the kill.

Brief moments later the Level 42 front man was making his way through a wood chipper to the tumultuous applause of the joyful hippies.

Tom shook a lock of the pop rockers hair free of his fist and climbed onto a nearby rock. “Hippies, listen to me, you are now free. Take all this weed back to your love camps and be happy. The Latoya Cult is finished.”

The hippies cheered but were soon harvesting the wacky backy faster than they ever had for their oppressive masters. Once they had several kilos each they made for a large mineshaft exit to the left of the cavern.

Jones stood guard until the final child of Aquarius gleefully ran from the plantation. “Ok Jimmy lets get out of here, and if we meet Icke on the way, all the better”.

“Not so fast Jones!” came an almost incoherent call from the stone passageway they had recently come down, there stood the whole tribe of Osbourne.

Jimmy started to square up but Jones placed a warning hand on his shoulder, “It’s no good Jimmy there are too many of them, plus Ozzy is practically indestructible without heavy armament. Quick lets head for the mineshaft.” He turned to the wobbling Rocker, “Hey Ozzy, isn’t that Bob Daisley behind you?”

With the tribe distracted the duo made for the exit the hippies had disappeared down.

After a few wrong turns they found some tracks and a couple of rickety looking carts, the sound of swearing was drawing closer as the Osbournes closed in.

“Quick into the front cart Jimmy, we have to get out of here fast”, said Jones pulling some levers.

Wee Jimmy jumped in as ordered shortly followed by Tom. “Hey Dr Jones, this cart it say ‘Brighton Ghost Train’ on it?” but his voice was drowned out by swearing as the Osborne family arrived just as the crap ghost train judderingly set off.

They flew down the tunnel at slightly faster than walking pace, passing a plastic skeleton and a curtain made of wet woollen strands.

The Osbournes were left to argue amongst themselves as the Welsh legend made good his escape.

After a mere two hours the cart came to a halt, bringing the riders out of their slumber in the bright Isle of Wight sunshine. They had exited just next to a deep ravine on a steep cliff face, the only exit was a tiny rope bridge across to the other side. It had recently been erected to help the Red Squirrel population traverse the gap without resorting to the use of the busy road deep below.

Slapping Wee Jimmy awake Jones then led his diminutive sidekick out across Squirrels doom. Five steps from freedom David Icke stepped out of the rhododendrons “That’s far enough Dr Jones, Ill be taking back the records in your bag now please” drawled Icke brandishing a pearl handled pistol. Tom glanced over his shoulder the Ozzy tribe were approaching from the other side.

Jones backed away back across the rodent rope bridge, unlslinging the bag he held it over the side. “Any closer Boyo and the records fall” threatened Jones.

Icke grinned “Drop them Dr Jones, I have them on cassette” he said moving out onto the bridge.

Jones withdrew a manicure set from the pocket of his skin tight trousers; selecting the nail scissors he held them against the delicate ropes of the bridge. He nodded his head to Jimmy and spoke to him in his own language. “Laddie get a bosey on with that rope, we are gonna put this galoot into the glen”

Jimmy nodded and wrapped his tiny child arms around the rope of the squirrel bridge.

Jones cut the bridge…

The Osbournes were caught totally unaware and tumbled into the ravine with barley a snatched insult as they went. Icke seemed to be heading the same way but as he passed the Welsh legend he grabbed and caught hold again, coming face to face with Tom. He immediately began his evil mantra. “LATOYA…LATOYA…LATOYA” he screamed with a hand over Jones’ chest, his pistol discarded in the fall. Tom fought the demonic forces that ripped at his chest and head butted Icke. Icke screamed as his nose burst like a beetroot, but he just frantically clawed at the bag of records. “Give them to me Jones, give me Tina”.

Tom’s mind reeled as he gasped for breath. Tina, of course that was the power that would link the records, the single that could ignite the magic.

Icke began his chanting again, drawing on the vast well of evil that was Latoya Jackson but Tom now had his answer and began repeating it. “You betrayed Tina, Tum Tina ke vishwaas karte ho!”

Power emanated from the bag of records and it began to smoke, Ickes eyes went wide and he recited his words again, but Jones was ready for him. “You betrayed Tina, Tum Tina ke vishwaas karte ho!”

The bag burst into flames and the records began tumbling out, ready to be smashed to pieces on the traffic below. Icke grabbed the album ‘The Who – Live At The Isle Of Wight Festival’, the last to fall out. As soon as the sacred vinyl touched his hands it burned with the power of Rock, and he dropped it into Tom’s waiting hand. Suddenly off balance Wee Jimmy saw his opportunity and pulled of the evil priest’s pants, the force was enough to dislodge Icke and sent him screaming to his death on the tarmac below. Though surely dead his fate was sealed as an Iceland home delivery van drove over his corpse.

A few hours later and Jones was back at the Hippie village eating a meal of quorn and rocks. The sacred record had been returned and the gentle villagers were getting off their tits on weed.

Jones smiled “Well its all back to normal Jimmy, we best be off”.

Wee Jimmy smiled back “But where are we going now Dr Jones?”

Jones grinned showing his perfect teeth “I still have an important engagement with a certain ladies volley ball team. Those ladies need my love, and God knows after the last couple of days I certainly need theirs”.

Wee Jimmy Krankie is shackled to an iron cage at the centre of the dastardly dais; he struggles furiously against his bonds, but to little avail.

David Icke, master of the Latoya Jackson cult and evil mastermind behind the hippie’s herbless enslavement, calls to his followers across the room on the other side of a moat of lava.

“Behold! They came to steal from Latoya, but now they will die for her!” He shouts to the crowd who increase in volume their rabid chanting. Signalling to his lackey, Phil Jupitus, Icke continues to stir the congregation into frenzy.

From a side chamber the pie loving Jupitus leads Dr Tom Jones, last of the Welsh Mohicans and five times winner of Bella magazines arse of the year. The Pop God shuffled out, his upper torso naked and shiny from sanctifying oils. Several ladies have to be removed from the audience due to nymphomatic shock, a startling side effect to Tom’s presence that threatened to break their conditioning.

Jones was not himself, his mind was addled by the sodastream evil he had been force fed hours earlier.

“See the non believer had been awakened to our cause. Now Jones, close the cage and send him into the arms of Latoya!” roared Icke, foam flecking his chin.

Jones moved Zombie like to the cage where Wee Jimmy was shackled; it could be only moments before his tiny midget heart was ripped from his body. In his fogged mental state Jones began checking the shackles and Jimmy tried to reason with the singing legend. “Tommy, please Tommy, snap out of it!”

Jones turned his dead eyes upon his half-pint sidekick and simply muttered “Latoya!”

“Noooooooo, Dr Jones, I gotta snap you out of this, there must be a way” pleaded Jimmy but Jones continued his mantra, reciting the queen of bad music’s name over and over.

Jimmy wracked his brains and tried words almost at random “Wales….Singing….Records……err…..Girls” at the last word Jones’ head twitched, Jimmy pushed home his new found advantage.

“Sex, sexy ladies, err…..” Jimmy not being even half the man in stature or bedroom experience of ‘The Jones’ stumbled to find more power words. Tom was starring at him now an inquisitive look on his broad features.

Jimmy tried one last effort “Err….Big….Big….BIG FAT TITTIES!” He yelled.

Tom’s eyes refocused losing their light glaze and he shook his head. In the background Icke was looking troubled. Jones gave him a quick glance and then recited aloud “LATOYA.”

Jimmy’s hopes crashed at the sound of that terrible name, tears welled in his eyed and he looked into his role models face. Jones winked.

“Now Jones, step aside and I will take his heart for Latoya” cried Icke allowing the Welsh legend to pass behind him.

As soon as he was past, Tom quickly set in with the kidney punches, a special move learnt in the working men’s clubs of Cardiff. Icke went down like a sack of leeks.

Phil Jupitus his face slick with sweat waddled over to come to his master’s aid. With a right hook more powerful than a Shirley Bassey Medley Tom sent the fat comedian tumbling to his doom, down the trap door under Wee Jimmy. The Crowd of Smash Hits readers on the other side of the moat could do nothing but shout and throw arm bands for various charities.

Tom swivelled, ready to finish off Icke only to find the crazy cult leader had vanished. Realising they were now alone on the alter, Jones strode over to free his diminutive sidekick. Jimmy grinned at his boss, relief showing in his eyes “What now Boss?”

Tom Jones, the man chosen as the image of the perfect human for the Pioneer 10 plaque walked down the dingy stone corridor. He could hear the unmistakeable mumble of hippies on a downer up ahead, a low drone like the air escaping from a broken bong. The air was full of the thick cloyingly sweet smell of marijuana and the heat was even more intense. He noticed a grate set into the floor and hunkered down to take a look. Lifting the cast iron grill out with the ease of a coalminer, he peered into the dazzling light below. The aroma was overpowering, forcing tears into his eyes. Underneath him the floor was completely covered in Cannabis plants interspaced with blindingly bright UV lamps. Every other surface was covered in tinfoil to reflect the heat and amongst it all tramped the forlorn hippies, tending to the plants and checking the lights. It was obvious that these poor wretches hadn’t had so much as a toke in months but were merely slave labour to this ganja producing machine. It was like keeping Tom away from women, too cruel for normal decent people to contemplate. One of the overseers, Vanilla Ice swaggered amongst the almost lifeless flower children, aiming random lyrics. The rage swelled up in Jones’s chest, no one, not even hippies should be reduced to hearing ice ice baby. He grabbed a large rock from nearby and propelled it with all his welsh might into the cave below. It struck Vanilla Ice squarely on the top of his ludicrous haircut with a sickening crunch of gel. Jones smiled at his handiwork, breathing heavily of the intoxicating vapour that rose from below like a teen temptress. He shook his head to bring himself round but his leg slipped on the edge of the hole, with a crack the side of the grating gave way and then he was falling, falling, falling.

He awoke with a start to find Wee Jimmy Krankie tending to his wounds, after a quick comb of his hair he was fine though. They were in a small cage constructed of MTV music awards and a few Grammy’s.

“You must have passed out when you fell Dr Jones” explained Jimmy.

Before Jones could answer however the demonic figure of Icke appeared before them. He was grinning like a Cheshire Chav.

“You tried to take the sacred records Dr Jones, but soon you will worship Latoya like a true believer!” proclaimed Icke.

“Not Bloody likely Boyo, I would rather eat my own testicles”

“You have good spirit but not for long” Icke replied with an inhuman cackle. He began fiddling with apparatus behind him. “You see Dr Jones soon we will distribute our superskunk to the youth of the world to pacify them and make them so caned that they think any old music is worth listening to.”He moved to one side and Jones saw the word “sodastream” on one of the canisters in Ickes hand and a shiver jolted down his spine. “Then we will impregnate the music of the rock gods with our own subliminal messages. By the time our Christmas number one is in the charts we will have achieved total world domination!” He turned round and in his hands held what appeared to be barely fizzy piss.

“You won’t get away with It Icke, the hippies of the earth will rebel, they have built up a tolerance to weed.”

Icke grinned again and motioned to his heavy, Ellen MacArthur who had been lurking in the corner. She loped over, her gorilla like physique rippling and opened the cage easily hefting Jones out as though he was a mainsail.

“Ahh but Dr Jones, all the hippies are here under my control, cut off from their dope they are powerless” he indicated to his moustached hired help MacArthur and she grabbed Jones’s mouth forcing it open in her rough calloused hands.

Icke poured in the beverage favourite of cheapskate parents until not a drop of the laughably carbonated liquid remained. Tom went on a taste sensation voyage to oblivion.

Welcome to 2008. This year promises to be even better than 1804 when Napoleon was proclaimed Emperor of Guernsey and the famous travelling salesmen Lewis and Clark crossed the genetic wastes of America in search of new starbucks franchises.

Apologies for the Yuletide gap in posts, but I enjoy drinking red wine from a santa hat as much as the next specially adapted primate. So without further ado we return you to our feature length presentation.

Tom Jones, the man so virile that saying his name three times makes you pregnant starred down into the steam filled cavern, what greeted his eyes sickened him. Hundreds of cult followers were crammed into the cave all facing the gigantic stone effigy of Latoya Jackson. Below the grotesque idol dressed in the robes of a Norwegian death metal bassist stood Icke revelling in the awe of his disciples.

“LATOYA MA!” roared Icke sending the assembled mass into further frenzied chanting. Clapping his hands in the air in signal two worshipers began to beat on drums whilst Mr Alan Titchmarsh appeared with a struggling prisoner.

Wee jimmy looked on in horror “what are they doing Dr Jones?”

“They pray to Latoya, goddess of terrible music, they mean to make a sacrifice” said Jones barely taking his eyes of the scene below.

The prisoner had been stripped to the waist and had lost much of his spirit; Titchmarsh slapped him across the face and forced him to towards the crowd.

Jones made an intake of breath; it was mild mannered reporter John Craven formerly of John Cravens Newsround. He had retired from journalism some time ago but it was often said that he carried on his search for the truth despite his retirement. It seemed that his search would end tonight in the depths of the castle.

Mr Alan Titchmarsh locked Craven into a cage suspended on long iron chains over a door in the floor of the evil alter.

Icke loomed in close to John Craven and began to recite “LATAOYA MA, LATOYA MA” over and over whilst holding his hand against the mild mannered reporter’s chest.

Either to block out the noise or to somehow protect himself Craven began to call out his own mantra “Krishnan Guru-Murthy, Krishnan Guru-Murthy, Krishnan Guru-Murthy….”.

Without warning Icke plunged his hand into John Cravens chest and pulled out his still beating heart “LATOYA MA!!!” he screamed.

His audience went crazy, gripped in their fervent fanaticism they beat their chests like gorillas and shouted back the unholy name of their god.

“My God, he’s still alive” commented Jones to Wee Jimmy who was dry retching in the corner.

John Craven continued to chant despite having no heart and Titchmarsh ordered men to lift up the cage and open the trapdoor. Hot gasses vented up out from the now open passage and more red light spilled out.

“We must be directly over the Isle of Wight volcano; it has been thought to have been extinct since the birth of Bruce Forsyth over a million years ago”.

The chanting had reached fever pitch now as Icke whipped up the crowd, then with a sudden downward arm slash he signalled the men to drop the cage into the molten rock below. In his other hand he held aloft the heart of the bastion of children’s news until it set alight the moment its owner hit the fiery hell below.

The show over the worshippers started to file out below and Jones could see many more familiar faces than at dinner: Pete Waterman, Simon Cowell, Rick Astley and Sonia.

Once the cave was completely empty Jones turned to Wee Jimmy “I’ve got to get down there Boyo” he said stripping off his shirt to reveal his luxuriously hairy chest.

“But why Dr Jones, lets just get out of here, this place is crazy!” pleaded Jimmy.

“For them” said Jones simply, pointing to the alter below. Jimmy peered down and saw the object of his interest, a turntable and collection of records.

Using his natural Welsh strength Jones easily scaled the glass like walls of the cavern and made it to the alter. The hideous figure of Latoya Jackson grinned manically down at him over its inhuman features. Slowly with many furtive glances around Jones walked towards the turntable a faint sound of static in the air. On the table were three albums on vinyl by: The Who, The Doors and Jimmy Hendrix. It looked as if there was a place for two others as well but they were missing. Slowly revolving on the turntable was the single Nutbush City Limits by Tina Turner, Jones grabbed this as well and stuffed them into the Netto bag Jimmy had supplied him with.

Jimmy could do nothing but bite his nails with apprehension whilst watching from above. Jones gave him a wave then disappeared behind the alter into the tunnels beyond.

“Where the hell you going Dr Jones” Jimmy exclaimed softly but Jones was too far away to hear. Sitting down grumpily he didn’t see the massive shadow pass behind him until it was too late and a chubby hand grabbed at his soldier. He spun round to face the podgy grimace of Phil Jupitus “Gotcha little spy, we are going to have fun with you!”